Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “I met Mr. Chao yesterday. Why would he trust me with your money?”

  “He came to visit. I told him to trust you.”

  “Are you sure you trust Mr. Chao? He seemed wishy-washy on your innocence.”

  Kate nodded and frowned. “He’s one of them Chinamen that’s always talkin’ in, uh, what’s that word. Not jokes—”

  “Riddles?”

  “Yes! Riddles. Talkin’ to him’s like herdin’ cats. You can’t get no straight goddamn answer out of his mouth sometimes. But we get along good. He’s used to hidin’ valuables from Communists.”

  —

  Mr. Chao stood at the entrance of his grocery offering free samples of an exotic white pulpy fruit. When he saw me he smiled broadly and bowed. The fruit had a sweet refreshing taste. “Good source for potassium and copper,” Mr. Chao said.

  I asked if we could speak privately. He gave his sample dish to an employee then motioned for me to follow him. We stopped at the back of the store in front of a beaded curtain I guessed was his office. “How I can help?”

  “I need eighty-five hundred dollars for Kate McCall.”

  Mr. Chao stared at me, his eyes bouncing around my face. He nodded then said, “Wait here,” before disappearing behind the curtain. He returned a few minutes later with a manila envelope. I couldn’t resist asking him a few questions.

  “Do you know where Kate got this money?”

  “It is my money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Kate give me money.”

  “You don’t care where she got the money?”

  “Money is energy. We call it qi. Kate attract qi energy flow and direct to me.”

  “What if the money was stolen qi? Isn’t that bad energy?”

  “Energy is not good or bad. Energy is energy. You help Kate with money?”

  “DNA testing.”

  Mr. Chao gave me his broadest smile yet. “DNA is truth. Money was meant to be. Money help bring justice.”

  I thanked Mr. Chao then called Debbie. “I have the money for DNA testing,” I said to her answering service. “Go ahead and file a motion for an order to allow testing by an expert.” I assumed she knew the right expert.

  That evening I stayed up late watching half-hour increments of figures entering and exiting Jackie Whitney’s building. If I recognized Kessler, I could place him in the building during the window of time that Jackie Whitney was murdered. During my breaks, I thought about DeWeldt. What was he afraid of and how was this fear related to Jackie Whitney? Corruption and Chicago followed each other like conjoined twins. For the wealthy, laws could be changed, judges could be bought. Jackie Whitney had money and liked using it to control people. Kessler was also well off. I jumped to my conversation with Lucille, when she told me Jackie had suggested developing Kessler as a possible donor. Perhaps Jackie suggested the same cultivation for Henry DeWeldt?

  —

  Henry DeWeldt was Furry BFF’s Francis of Assisi Champion, a designation that positioned his photo at the top of the list honoring the most generous benefactors. Next came Furry BFF’s patron saint, Jackie Whitney. A treasure like Henry DeWeldt had to have a connection to Lucille Mackenzie, and she was only too happy to tell me about it.

  “Oh, Henry’s a doll!” Lucille said with a dreamy, reminiscent look. She rolled her chair back then crossed her legs. The plunging neckline of her blouse and tight knee-length skirt once again struck me for its sharp contrast to what everyone else wore. “I met him through Jackie. I told her she should get a finder’s fee because he was such an easy sell. He’s on the board and our single largest donor—and he’s very handsome.”

  “What was your impression of their relationship?”

  “Well, he was at least fifteen years older so I wasn’t sure about it. But he’s rich and still very attractive so Jackie probably found him hard to resist. And they seemed to get along so well just playing the role of Chicago royalty that I thought maybe they had a chance.”

  “But the relationship changed?”

  Lucille shifted in her seat. “Well, things changed. They stayed friends, or at least that’s how it looked to me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Jackie didn’t want to talk about it. Anyway, that’s really none of our business, is it?”

  “I’m investigating a murder. The victim’s relationships are very much my business.”

  Lucille looked away then shifted in her chair again. “I understand what you’re saying. It’s just that I take privacy very seriously.”

  “What about you? Did you and Henry hit it off?”

  “Oh, yes, we had a lot in common. As you know, my background is in estate planning and I combine this expertise with facilitating the shelter’s long-term fundraising goals.”

  “You try to persuade people to leave something behind for the shelter after they die.”

  “Or while they’re still alive. Since Henry is an estate-planning attorney and an animal lover, he recognizes how important it is for the shelter to secure sources of funding well into the future.”

  “Did Jackie and Henry both create their own future sources of funding for Furry BFF?”

  A cold breeze blew. “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody told me anything. Their names—”

  “Nobody has the right to talk about someone’s private financial agreements. Yes, we are a nonprofit charity, Mr. Landau. But that doesn’t mean who gives what or how they give it is part of the public record. It isn’t.”

  “Jackie Whitney’s picture on the wall over the heading ‘patron saint’ isn’t exactly a symbol of modesty.”

  Lucille looked at her watch. “Yes, well, many want the world to know how important they are and part of my job is to accommodate their wishes. But nobody has the right to discuss financial details.”

  “I see. Back to Henry and Jackie—”

  “Wait just a second, please. Are you suggesting Henry DeWeldt had something to do with Jackie’s death?”

  “Are you aware of the complaints filed against his law firm for allegedly ripping off wealthy elderly folks?”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I’ve been threatened in DeWeldt’s name to not find evidence exonerating Kate McCall.”

  “You don’t think she did it?”

  “I’ve been punched in the nose, thigh, and back. How do you feel about that?”

  “That’s terrible. But you have to understand that this shelter is my life. My raison d’être. I’ve explained how the future must be secured now with trusts and such. But these trusts are not irrevocable. They can be changed at any time.”

  “Do you think Jackie had information linking DeWeldt with illegal activity?”

  “Oh, my God! I don’t believe my ears. You’re really saying Henry DeWeldt is the killer, aren’t you?”

  “Kate McCall may have been stealing from Jackie, but she didn’t kill her.”

  “So you’ve decided Henry DeWeldt did it.”

  “I’ve decided he’s a bad man, Lucille. He rips off old people and pays off others to hide it.”

  “And how do you really know this?”

  “Eighty-three complaints filed with the disciplinary commission. Zero convictions. You can call it my working theory.”

  “A theory! You’d ruin a man’s life over a theory?”

  “If Jackie knew what he was up to, if she had information that could ruin Henry DeWeldt’s life, don’t you think that’s a motivation to kill? Couldn’t that be his motivation to see Kate McCall take the rap?”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about and I want you to leave my office.” Lucille uncrossed her legs then rolled her chair up to her desk and began looking over some papers.

  I waited, hoping she would hear the vitriol in her voice and feel guilty, but soon grasped that our meeting was indeed over.

  Chapter 19

  I stood on the sidewalk in front of Furry BFF writing down a few notes. Debbie’s name appeared on my phon
e.

  “How are you and Detective Brookstone getting along?” Debbie said over the phone.

  “Linda Napier is dead,” I said.

  “I know. The cops are going to pick up Kessler for questioning.”

  “You almost sound happy.”

  “I can’t control events, Jules. But it happened and it could help our case if we argue the same person killed Jackie Whitney.” I had no response. Debbie said, “And don’t tell me where you got the money for DNA testing. I don’t want to know. Okay, I’ll get the ball rolling on the motion to get those skin flakes—or whatever they are—tested.”

  “More of the same was found at Linda Napier’s townhouse. Tufts of black fur too. It could link the two murders to the same person. I also got access to the surveillance video. Hopefully I can find out once and for all if Kessler returned to the building during the window of time Jackie Whitney was murdered.”

  “The state’s attorney is going to offer Kate McCall a plea. Twenty years in exchange for naming her accomplice, and her cooperation in getting a conviction.”

  “McCall didn’t kill anybody.”

  “Even if she did, that’s a crappy deal. I’m countering with no prison time for full cooperation.”

  “You think Kate McCall is really protecting someone?”

  “As long as she cooperates, who cares?”

  “From the start, McCall insisted Kessler was the killer. But she doesn’t really know anything. Somebody is holding information over DeWeldt’s head. If it wasn’t Jackie Whitney, who?”

  “You’re the investigator, Jules. You tell me. In the meantime, follow through to see if Kessler is on that CCTV video or not. And without solid proof on DeWeldt, I don’t want to even hear his name.”

  I’m the investigator. After this job ended, I hoped I would never hear the name Debbie Lopez again.

  —

  Even with the help of caffeine, monitoring the CCTV video was excruciating. Now it only took twenty minutes until stupefaction set in. But I persevered, took lots of breaks, wrote down lots of time stamps. Little by little, I fast-forwarded through the evening of the sixteenth, stopping when people appeared, fairly confident I could pick out Dr. Joshua Kessler. As I moved into the wee hours, time moved along rapidly with little stopping since the average age of the building’s tenants was well over fifty. Gradually, the building began waking up to the morning of the seventeenth. It occurred to me I had not spoken to Tamar since she kissed me goodbye the morning before last.

  “Is this a bad time?” I said, knowing full well Tamar was dealing with the late breakfast–early lunch crowd.

  “You know it is, goof.”

  “I’m sorry, I felt bad for not calling you since I saw you last.”

  “Well, you can redeem yourself by inviting me over tonight. I’m cooking. Make sure the door isn’t attached. My arms will be full.”

  “Attached?” I said. “You mean locked?”

  “Hey, be nice. I’m an immigrant, remember. English wasn’t my first language. I gotta run.”

  —

  Through the oval glass I saw Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. I knocked just hard enough to get his attention.

  “Hey, how are you, Julie?” Arthur said after he opened the door.

  “How’s Dad?”

  Arthur shook his head. “He’s all over the place. He’s not seeing the snakes anymore but he’s convinced they were there—and don’t even think about saying he’s wrong. This morning he didn’t recognize me. He said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ I said, ‘It’s me, Arthur, your caretaker.’ He just stared at me then walked away.”

  Dad sat in his swivel-rocker-recliner watching a Rockford Files rerun. I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t seen him in that chair watching television. “Hi, Dad.”

  He peered at me, his eyebrows crimped tightly together. “You know that son of a bitch is telling me the snakes aren’t real. He talks to me like I’m loony as a bin.”

  It took a moment but I realized what he meant. “You mean Arthur thinks you belong in the loony bin?”

  Why did I say that? I thought, and wished I could push a rewind button. Then a smile crept over Dad’s mouth. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”

  His grin came with a familiar twinkle in his eyes, followed by all the warm smile lines I had known for so many years. I said, “Did you really not recognize Arthur this morning?”

  Dad considered my question. “He was wearing a wig! And a stupid-looking hat!”

  I glanced out the door. Arthur sat at the kitchen table, shaking his head. I said, “I’ll talk to him about messing with you like that.”

  “I wish you would. So what’s new with you, Julie?”

  His question sounded ridiculously natural. I couldn’t help but respond in the way he would’ve expected.

  “Remember I told you I’m helping the public defender assigned to the woman accused of killing Jackie Whitney?”

  “You never told me that,” he said. “So who did it, smart guy?”

  “I’m not sure. Reasonable doubt is her lawyer’s strategy.”

  “ ’Course it is. That’s the defense’s job. Who’re you looking at?”

  “Jackie Whitney rented out her place while she vacationed in Palm Springs. She got into a dispute with the renter over money. The renter insists he moved out before she returned. I’m checking surveillance video to see if he’s lying about not returning to the building.”

  Dad nodded his approval. “Sounds right.”

  “Then there’s the boyfriend. An older man who’s a powerful corporate lawyer.”

  “Money’s the motive, you know.”

  “Probably.”

  “Don’t give me this ‘probably’ shit. It’s money. Rich old man, young broad. It’s money.”

  “The young broad was rich. She didn’t need this guy’s money.”

  Dad glanced at the television a moment, then turned back to me. “Big-shot lawyers got big-shot egos. Losing reputation means losing power. No power, no money.”

  “Yeah, well, I think he’s scared of information the victim had.”

  “Jules, what the hell was their relationship really about? You gotta ask that question. And after you do, then you go find the answer.”

  That Dad could still draw out a foggy kind of wisdom gave me hope. Then the door slammed shut. “But Jesus Christ, what’re we going to do about those damn snakes?”

  “I thought they were gone.”

  “What if they come back? They could come back, you know! Now get away from me and take that fat guy with you. I don’t need this shit.”

  I let Dad get back to watching The Rockford Files.

  —

  I too saw snakes. They were all over the city wearing expensive suits. What was Jackie Whitney and Henry DeWeldt’s relationship about? A damn good question.

  From the parkway in front of Dad’s building, I called Lucille Mackenzie, expecting her to hang up on me, but I was wrong.

  “Tell me again how Jackie and Henry DeWeldt met?”

  “Uh, I introduced them.”

  “For some reason I thought Jackie introduced you to DeWeldt, as a potential big-money fish to catch.”

  Silence. “That’s not what I said.”

  It is what she said. “Was it a blind date?”

  “Oh, no, Jackie wanted information on her, um, financial planning, for her son. Phillip’s all she has, after all, and she wanted peace of mind, should something happen to her.”

  “So they met to talk business and hit it off?”

  “Exactly.”

  Debbie’s name beeped on my call waiting. I thanked Lucille. “Jules Landau speaking.”

  “Kessler’s been teaching all day,” Debbie said. “They’ve got nothing to hold him on. How’s the video surveillance coming?”

  “I haven’t seen anything suspicious yet.”

  “The plea deal fell through. Kate McCall still insists Kessler is Whitney’s killer.”

  �
��Unless I can find him in a video going back to her apartment, I think he’s clear.”

  “Let me know,” she said then hung up.

  —

  The door hit the wall hard enough to bounce halfway back. “Oops, sorry,” Tamar said. She walked to the kitchen holding two full bags of groceries. Food preparation was a serious business. In no time, the counter was covered with dough, vegetables, potatoes, walnuts, beans, and spices I’d never heard of.

  “Watch and learn,” Tamar said as she filled a pot with water. “First, I take these dumpling-like things and boil them….”

  It would’ve been a perfect setup for a cooking show, although I paid more attention to her backside moving under cropped terry-cloth sweatpants than the secrets to making a great walnut paste.

  “So what’s new since I last saw you?” Tamar said while we waited for the food to cook. “Any more dead bodies?”

  “Yes, actually.”

  When a gag line didn’t follow she said, “You’re serious?”

  “One of Jackie Whitney’s old friends was beaten to death in the same manner as Jackie.”

  Tamar stared at me. “We’ve got a serial killer in our midst?”

  “Somebody wanted to shut her up. She knew more than she was letting on and she was unstable. At least that’s my impression.”

  “But who? The same killer?”

  “Or the same killer’s accomplice, if two people were in on Jackie Whitney’s murder—although you’re not supposed to know that.”

  Neither of us spoke. Then Tamar said, “So what else is new?”

  I laughed at her unintentional irony. “Bad news first. My father’s in the early stages of dementia.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “The good news. Soon he’ll be a perfect match for your aunt.”

  The joke might’ve been a mistake. Then I noticed Tamar struggling to keep a smile from creeping over her face. I laughed, Tamar giggled, game over. Our mirth grew into hysterical crescendos of glee. Images of Dad’s reaction after being introduced to Tamar’s aunt sustained my laughter for a good five minutes, which only fed Tamar’s hilarity. That is, until she remembered food was cooking and rushed to the kitchen.

  After dinner we drank tea in the living room, where my laptop was still opened to the website that stored the surveillance video. I explained that I was trying to establish whether a suspect had returned to the victim’s building.